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The Call of Sorrow 

A POEM OF DESTINY 



ROBERTS 




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THE CALL OF SORROW 











THE CALL OF SORROW 






A POEM OF DESTINY 

BY 

CPiARLES V. H. ROBERTS 






THE TORCH PRESS :: PUBLISHERS :: 1917 














COPYRIGHT BY 
THE TORCH PRESS 

NOVEMBER 1917 



M -7 1918 



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TO THE MEMORY OF 

MY AUNT 

EMILIE DE MUN SMITH 



THE CALL OF SOKEOW 




ELOVED ! In thine adversity there is 
Not one will call thee friend. When mortal heart 
Beats outward for the healing touch, the little 
Things for its easing never come. Sorrow 
Is an Exile, which hath no portion in the time 
And tale and scorching hrain of selfishness. 



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F thou hast webs of laughter and dangling gold, 
Or credit on the rich man's scroll writ deep, 
And in thy house a sense of feasts and affectation 
Unconf essed, — then thou hast many friends ; 
Thy life goes on with splendid tendence; 
Thou art a shepherdess in the golden lights. 




UT a sudden pause in entertainment, its glows 
And sighs and wines and visions delicate ; 
Or hearken with thy gifts and jewels and favorite 
Robes, dazzling the longest corridors; 
Then thou shalt he with less friends, — lingering 
In the sunlight, hut each remembering. 




ET Sorrow come, — the doorway of thy soul 
Flung open to the storm of life's great pain, — 
Then thou must win another friend; 
Mad and knowing all, thy lords of pleasure 
Flash and elsewhere seek ; thou art solitary, 
Untended, comfortless, and yet — not ended. 



Spirit of Sorrow! with such majestic certainty 
Dost thou come in on all things human; 
Thy august angel hefore the compact of 
Our life was signed, hreathed far off in star-dust: 
Then our spirits quickened by the Word 
Of God, conceived and met thee. For a time, 
We, clothed in mortal raiment, swoon to thy 
Bemoaning reeds and deepest chords of misery. 





Of pain, 



ELOVED, thy stirring bosom is besieged with grief, 
Sad sea-horizons of sorrow mystical, 
With wounds no human hand can ever close. 
Until thy soul beyond the ocean, weary, rests. 
Thy tear, — each tear a solitaire, a pearl 
That vainly shimmers on the crimson reef 
for a setting in the ring of Sympathy ! 



OSE Health, — thy gold will twine in loneliness; 
Thy most cherished arms that weaved about thy strength, 
In weakness waver; petals o'er-hlown fly 
On the wind away to stronger stems. If thou 
Art ill, ill unto death, a mother's love 
Alone will shine, — that unadorned, profound. 
Unselfish love. The deeper falls the darkness 

Of thy life, the brighter is its calm 

Enduring warmth. Forever half in lightning 

And in gloom, the maternal star in brilliance 

Unafraid grows stronger in the firmament of Sorrow. 





H ! If we could be the things we are, 
And not the things we have! Our chattels, 
Gold, and songs are in themselves a nothingness, 
A glow that has a wasting flame, and yet 
Without, we are but ashes, — living limbs, 
Wordless, handless, helpless, friendless. 
Groping for the spirit of Companionship. 



FT Sorrow, art thou Victory, crowned in poverty, 
In fallen fortunes and the emptiness of aid ; 
^§A Hll k^^^l ^ ^^^® ^^ bitterness on barren stone, 
^ ^1^ ^!^i Those pangs of pain and utter deprivation, 
The flesh in sighs of jealousy composed; 
To reach and grasp and suffer for the joys 
Of life, — those wistful, dreamful joys of life 
Attained by luxury only. Feebly, step 
By step, the roaming of these starving souls 
Casts a shadow for a moment; then 
Unassuaged they soar away unto Oblivion. 




Talisman of Sorrow, winged through aeons 
From the thunder of a Self-existent 
§FA W^ ^^ Mind! — groan and cry in the anguish 
r^^fe^^j Of the angels mutinied; in human bodies 
Broken, torn and mangled on the arenas 
Of Eoman persecution; in the twilight of battle fields, 
Woman's shame and man's hypocrisy, 
Unpraised achievement, kindred disappointment, 
Memoried achings, bitter tragic losses. 





ITH thine august mournful smile, what art 

Thou Sorrow, — thy sunset strangely pathetic o'er 

The world's most splendid lives ; thy grief, regret, 

The vague centennials of thy shame? To saint 

And sin alike, thou dost cohere. 

Though weary is the heart within thy hreast. 

Oh! Why does thy bleeding compact cover all? 



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